Deprivation (Up or Down?)
by Redhead Maniac
Summary: After the group has been captured at Terminus, they were separated into different box-cars. It's been days and Daryl is suffering from hallucinations, a lack of water and sensory deprivation. He can't make sense of what is going on around him as vile, slippery thoughts start to worm their way into his mind.


A/N: royally fucked up the formatting, had to re-upload. My apologies.

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><p>He doesn't know how many days have passed, only that he went to sleep five times. Or was it seven? Ten..?<p>

Fuck, he can't remember. He lost the sense of time.

His back and arms are stiff — if someone pushes too hard, he's sure the bones will break with a dry crunch, bloody-white flakes spraying the walls and floating in the air like ashes.

His tongue is fat and heavy, clumsy. He can barely move it to swallow what little saliva he has. When was the last time he drank? The bowl is empty, has been for some time.

His lips move, but make no sound. Daryl's throat is scratchy, dry, raw from shouting obscenities and blood-coiling threats that bounced off the walls of the box-car.

There's no light. Metal underneath his palms and oily blackness that makes his head spin, makes him nauseous. He's sure he's thrown up a couple of times, can still taste the vinegary bile on his lips that won't wash away no matter how hard he tries to lick it off. The thick fabric wrapped around his head, acting as a blindfold, crushes his head like a lead band, making the pulse in his temples hammer against his boiling skull. His fingertips are icy-cold, but he starts breaking into a sweat, gulping down air in hopes of preventing another hurling spasm. He can't waste any more water as it is.

However, as the smell of bodily exudation — blood, piss, sweat, bile — hits his receptors, his stomach contracts in a violent fit, bringing searing pain across his abdomen. Daryl curls in on himself, lying on the cold floor, and starts heaving, the miniscule amount of saliva he has dribbling down the corner of his mouth as his eyes start to water. He wants to bang a fist against the floor, but all of his strength has drained — not enough even for such a simple gesture. He's trembling from the cold and exhaustion, doesn't know what time of the day it is, can't tell which direction is the door or when was the last time someone came in to check on him.

He also doesn't know if he's the last one alive.

That thought keeps on running through his head, doesn't want to be chased off and nudges at his inflamed brain with a sick, childish giggle. _You're all alone now. You're the last one. You failed them all, Daryl, and now you're going to die here alone, like a sick dog shoved into a crate to die in its own filth. They didn't come for you because they're all dead._

He tries to shout "No!", but all that comes out is the hissing of a broken, scratchy record.

He can deal with any amount of physical pain, he can take any beating with pride, baring his teeth in a menacing snarl and daring his offenders to lash out more blows, but this deprivation is driving him mad.

His mind is tearing at the seams, asking questions without an answer, planting seeds of doubt and snuffing out any carefully constructed self-esteem that he'd gained.

He's worth shit, that's what he is. He can't do nothing. Can't lift his big, stupid, fat head and look around, because there's _no fucking point_.

He can't see anything.

They're all probably dead.

Maybe he's dead.

Why would the Termites keep him alive? What do they want from him?

They want to break him? What's the point in that? He ain't got nothing to offer, and Rick ain't stupid enough to bend to their will if they hurt Daryl. Carl, maybe. But not Daryl.

At least he hopes so.

He grunts at the cramping of muscles in his right shoulder, trying to shift around on the floor and uncaring when his cheek meets something wet. Probably his own filth.

Daryl figures someone must come soon to refill his water, but it's always been done when he was unconscious. How do they know when he knocks out? Do they have a running generator, cameras, maybe? What a fucking waste of energy.

The hunter growls and lets out a huff, trying to grasp onto that thought. He needs to pretend he's sleeping. Maybe then he'll have a chance to escape.

But what if they ain't gonna come? What if they decided to finally cut his water intake and let him dehydrate?

He jerks his head, having thought he heard something outside.

_Outside of where?_ — his mind supplies.

Daryl strains his hearing, but the cotton silence creeps in again, enveloping his head in a pressurized tank.

There's no one here with him. Merle, he saw Merle a couple of days ago, but Daryl knows it's the aftereffects of the harsh blow to his head. That wrench must've weighed a damn ton.

What if he gets out and all of them are dead? What then?

If the group is gone, there's no point for him to go on. What the hell is he supposed to do then? He ain't got no one but them. They're his family.

Beth's words ring through his head — "You'll be the last man standing". The girl didn't realize she'd voiced his worst nightmare.

Daryl doesn't really have a purpose. To survive, sure, but what then? What's the point of going on if there's no hope, humanity is stomped to shit and the only likes left alive are the sons of bitches like the ones who threw him in here.

It's hard to breathe and white, cold pains starts bleeding into his forehead.

Thoughts start slipping away, fading like a morning recollection of a dream, placing the hunter down into a tube full of icy water, electricity running through it.

His synapses are firing at a rapid speed, nerves fraying and short-circuiting.

_Gotta hold on._

He can't remember how to breathe, feels his body floating upside down, and at the same time feels it chained to the cold hard floor.

Has somebody come? He thinks he hears voices, but it's eerily silent. Daryl can't concentrate on one thing and decide which one is right, which one is wrong.

He wants to go back to that heavy murkiness without sleep, the witching hour when his mind and body finally meet, trying to mend together torn ligaments of sanity and open skin.

What comes instead is a bright light that makes him scream.

The cloth is taken off, but he's still blinded. Something is trickling down his face, and he doesn't care if it's tears or blood. He snaps his jaws like a rabid wolf, hacking up mucus and traces of bile, choking on it as he's grabbed by the shoulders and jerked onto his jello legs. He tries to fight, to kick anything within reach, but he keeps hitting air.

Did they come to take him away?

Did they come to finish him off?

He feels the loud pounding in his right temple and flutters his eyes open, meeting the darkness.

He's lying on the cold metal floor, no sound, no nothing.

He doesn't know how many days have passed.

He doesn't know if he's ever left the box-car.

Doesn't know what he's waiting for, when was the last time he drank or ate.

He knows he's got to wait. Lie still, save the last grits of his energy and wait.

Maybe the darkness will come and envelope him in numbness again, but maybe, just maybe, the light will come. And if that happens, he's got to fight through the searing pain with his last breath, cause he's a fucking Dixon, and Dixons never back down.

He won't go down like a sick dog, no.

He'll go out like a mad, raving wolf, drenching his muzzle in blood.

But until then, he has to wait.


End file.
